


Take Care

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: Injured daddy Dean and needy little Roman.





	Take Care

He arrived at the rental just moments before Dean did. The little house was dark and locked up, but Roman had barely gotten his lay of the front yard before another car pulled into the driveway. A woman got out and Roman felt a stab of anxiety before he saw the woman’s scrub pants and remembered the company had hired a private nurse to help Dean out around the house and ferry him back and forth from physical therapy until the doctor cleared him to drive. 

The nerves didn’t fade, however. Really, they were just an amplification of the anxieties that’d been rumbling around in the stomach all day. That had been happening since his fight with Samoa Joe had ended and he didn’t have his anger to hold onto anymore.

Seeing Dean’s face helped a lot. Even hidden behind his sunglasses and wincing with fatigue and pain, Dean’s face seems lively and animated, comforting and solid. Roman rushed off the little concrete porch and met Dean coming up the driveway.

“My boy!” Dean said cheerfully and allowed Roman to collide with him. Roman slid arms around Dean’s waist and, carefully, spun him around in a close held hug. Dean laughed. “You’re early,” he said. 

Roman had sped on the freeway, but didn’t feel the need to admit that. He put Dean down and Dean surreptitiously stroked the small of his back with his good hand.

The arm was too buried under gauze and nylon for the damage to be properly assessed but Dean himself looked good. A little puffy from too much sleep and dark eyed from pain and painkillers, but better than Roman had been imagining. There was a backpack in the footwell of the car and Roman took it, flinging it over one shoulder and going back to his car to collect his suitcase while the nurse supervised Dean up a flight of steps.

“I can walk,” he reminded her. “I’m not invalid.”

Roman got a feeling that this fight had happened before and was now being renewed for his benefit. The nurse smiled, sweet but patronizing. 

The three bustled into the house and Dean collapsed on a sofa, breathing heavy. The nurse tried to arrange him and he batted away her hands, pulling away from her sharply.

“Back off,” he told her. 

She eased his arm onto a pillow and pretended not to notice when he immediately rearranged himself. “You can go now,” Dean said.

“You need to hydrate,” the woman said.

“I think I can manage to drink water on my own.”

The woman drew her mouth into a sour smile. “You’ve got physio tomorrow at noon.”

“Thrilling.”

She threw her hands up in surrender. “I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty,” she said with the last shred of her patience and then stepped away, drawing her sweater close around her waist. Roman flashed her a smile on her way to the door and she raised her eyebrows, indicating Dean with a face that said, ‘this is your problem now.’

The door was incredibly loud. Dean threw the pillow at her retreating form.

“She’s just doing her job,” Roman chided.

“She’s a fascist fucking corporate spy.”

The interpretation, wary and disgruntled and paranoid, was so utterly Dean that it made a flower of warmth bloom in Roman’s chest. He smiled, felt tears come to his eyes and hid them by burying his face in Dean’s shoulder. 

“Hi, buddy,” Dean said, falling into character immediately with mood and tone of voice. “I’m alright.”

Roman felt something in his body begin to relax. He tried to focus on his breath, on Dean’s smell, his deodorant and shampoo, the stray hint of gatorade and black coffee.

“Hey,” Dean said, turning his attention to Roman more intently. “I’m okay.”

“I was worried,” Roman said. His voice was shrinking, his shoulders bowing as he sank further in Dean’s one handed embrace. “Scared,” he admitted. “I was scareded. You got hurt and you left and Joe was being so mean about you. I fought him.”

“I saw.”

“I fought him and I was scared for you but I fought him. For you.”

Dean started to stroke Roman’s hair, adjusting his back to better take Roman’s weight. “That sounds like a lot, little one.” 

The phrase rose goosebumps on Roman’s arms and stirred a longing deep in the bottom of his mind. Roman sighed, pulling back and trying to sit up until Dean caught a grip on his neck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You need to rest.” He put his palms over Dean’s hand and tried to push it away.

Dean’s grip tightened on him. “Nuh uh. That’s not a little boy decision.”

Roman flushed. He really hadn’t come expecting that. All of their props were littered between their two houses, with only a few of the most innocuous pieces tucked into Dean’s luggage.

“Dean,” he said, trying to put on a serious adult tone. It so rarely seemed to work for him. “You don’t have to do anything like that. I shouldn’t have done that, talked like that. I’m sorry. You just rest, babe. It’s fine. I don’t need it.”

“You don’t need it?”

“No,” Roman lied. He wondered if Dean had noticed him begging Joe to hit him again.

“You don’t need it.” The emphasis Dean put on that first word made Roman bow his head, look up at him through eyelashes. Dean shrugged, then winced a little when the motion jarred his elbow. “Alright. That’s okay, I guess. Probably couldn’t find it anyway. I mean, you’re cold right now.”

“Cold?”

“Freezing. Antarctica.”

It was a game they played a lot to get them both settled into their roles. Dean calling out hot, cold, and Roman crawling under tables and climbing on top of countertops to get his treat. The prize had been everything from sex in the shower to a piece of cake for Roman to eat with his hands.

Roman hesitated, but his eyes were already straying around the room, seeking out childish hiding places. There was a a recliner with space underneath it on the other side of the television. There might be a gap behind the books on the shelf above.

Dean squeezed his arm and gave him curt, serious nod.

Dean let him go long enough for Roman to slide off the couch. He took a moment to settle himself, kicked his shoes off. Little Roman was usually barefoot. He pulled off his jacket too. The sweatpants and t-shirt he still wore were fine, comfortable and loose fitting. He briefly wished he had his hooded onesies or his footie pajamas, something in bright colors or a sweet print.

“Hair,” Dean reminded him.

Little Roman wore his hair down, dry, and usually in his face with his wide, dark eyes blinking out between stray strands. Looking at Dean through the frame of his hair made the tension in him ease. Hearing Dean sigh, the rough gasp of affection as he murmured, “there’s my little boy.”

Roman took a shuffling hesitant step towards the back of the room, peering down the short hallway.

“Colder, sub zero.”

Roman turned toward the bathroom’s open door.

“Even colder. Bobsledding in hell.”

Roman whirled on him, pleasantly shocked. “Daddy!” he chided.

Dean couldn’t contain his pleasure at the word.

Roman came carefully around the sofa again, staying out of Dean’s reach just in case he was feeling inclined to pinch or tickle. He took a step toward the television cabinet.

“Warmer,” Dean admitted and then as Roman crept toward the cabinet, “warmer, warmer. Hot.”

Roman opened the cabinet under the television and pulled out a bulky plastic bag.

“Red hot! Burning! Lava!”

Roman plopped down on the carpet and reached into the bag. His hand met something slick and he pulled out first a coloring and activity book. He paged through it, delighting in the thick lined, simple designs.

“Fishes!”

“I stopped by Toys R Us the other day,” Dean said, failing to smother a grin. “Thought I might have a visit from a special little boy.”

Roman drew his hand down the rough texture of the page, tracing a sea turtle with an index fingers. “I love it.”

“There’s new crayons too. And something else...er...whats her name said I couldn’t not get it. ‘I know little boys and he’ll think it’s the coolest thing ever.’” He was blushing a little, looking away. 

Roman wrangled the crayons out of the bag, 72 colors and a sharpener in the box!, and pawed through an extra layer of plastic bag before withdrawing the final present. A plastic shell casing with a familiar logo and, inside, an action figure posed in a gesture of dominant aggression. He turned to Dean and beamed.

“Open it!” he insisted, scrambling back to the sofa with the box in hand.

“You sure? It loses all the value then.”

“Open it!” 

Dean withdrew a knife from his pocket, flipped it open and then awkwardly sawed through the plastic, holding the figure in his other hand to do so. “They never get my face right,” Dean said bemusedly.

As Dean struggled to close the knife and return it to his pocket Roman wrenched open the plastic, tearing and warping it to pluck the treasured action figure from within. For a moment he just held it, looking. Dean’s wild eyes, immortalized in plastic, stared back at him.

“I would have gotten you too, but they were sold out.”

Roman gave a brief, unchildlike snort and then stored that detail somewhere special to whip out the next time he saw a ROMAN SUCKS sign. He gave the figure a kiss, then started a mumbling off key version of Dean’s entrance music under his breath. He stalked the action figure across the back of the sofa and then flipped him onto Dean’s lap.

“Daddy doll,” Roman said with satisfaction, leaping the figure back into his own arms.

“Should we have a snack?”

They usually had a snack. Dean liked the excuse to go shopping for dinosaur chicken nuggets and fruit by the foot and Roman, though he’d never admit it, liked the sweet simplicity that came from eating junk without worrying about counting carbs or if he had to take his shirt off this week. Roman glaced toward the kitchen and then Dean was rising up on the couch with a bitten down grunt.

Roman shot off the sofa. “I can get the snack, Daddy.” He heard Dean stiffle a heavy sigh, the fall back again.

There wasn’t much in the way of snack food in the house and nothing particularly childlike. Roman settled for an orange, big and ripe, and a bowl of cornflakes. He poured the milk with solemn concentration, carried it with both hands into the living room and then repeated the process and brought the second bowl to Dean.

“Thank buddy,” Dean said, accepting the bowl and setting it on the side table. “Why don’t you bring Daddy a beer.”

Roman hesitated for half a moment, Dean was undoubtedly already on Vicodin, then remembered that little boys didn’t worry about that sort of thing. He got the beer from the bottom shelf of the fridge. He liked the bright color of the can.

Dean turned on some cartoon they’d both seen already and leaned his head back against the couch, straining his neck for a moment while the theme song played.

Roman hopped the Daddy doll across the floor, then sprawled out on his stomach, letting his knees bend up to swing his bare feet back and forth. He ate his cornflakes, made a mess of the orange peel getting bright curls of it under his nails. Then he shoved the bowl aside and pulled the coloring book to him. He leafed through it until he found a picture he particularly liked and tore messily into the crayon box.

He lost track of time for a while, spaced out and easy in little space as he covered first one page, then a second with carefully applied colors.

At the third page, he felt his hand relaxing, the motion of his shoulder loosening and his fingers pressing down harder, letting the colors play outside the lines, Watched the layers of them mix, the crayon’s point sharpening on side, than another.

A particularly vigorous scribble stuttered over the edge of the page and left a swipe of crayon on the fake wood flooring. Roman hurried to wipe at the smudge and noted it came off easy. Probably designed to hold up to hard partying college student and tourists too tired from sightseeing to keep control of their kids.

It was probably meant to be wiped clean of crayon scribbles every day.

Roman glanced up. Dean was gazing at the television blankly.

Little Roman wasn’t a bad kid. But he did act out sometimes, just for attention.

Roman dug into the box and carefully selected a heavy red. He scribbled it across the paper experimentally, pulled his knees up underneath him and put a hand down on the wooden floorboards.

“Ro?”

Roman jerked at the sound of his voice, bowed his head closer to the coloring book. He snuck a peek and saw that Dean’s gaze was focused on him.

“Whatcha doing, buddy?” Dean asked sternly.

“Coloring,” Roman said, avoiding his look. He squeezed the crayon again.

“Just coloring?”

“Uh huh.”

Dean hummed in wary agreement, turned his attention back to the television set. Ice Bear was tossing vegetables into a frying pan. Roman glanced to the tv, to Dean, back to his coloring book. He turned the page and began to scribble the red along the body of a smiling octopus. His hand kept moving, easy and smooth, off the edge of the page and in circles on the floor. The crayon vibrated on the courser surface, seemed to buzz in his sweating hand.

“Roman!”

Roman dropped the crayon, shrinking back and drawing his chin to his chest.

Dean slid off the couch onto his knees. Roman scooted back, cowering into space above his own knees. There was hot anticipation churning in his stomach.

Dean put his hand under Roman’s chin and pulled his gaze upward. “You did that on purpose,” Dean said. There was steely level of calm in his voice, a stability that he so rarely got to express. “I watched you, Roman.”

Roman fidgeted, trying to get away from Dean’s eyes.

“Yes.”

“You know that’s wrong.”

“Y-yes.”

“You know what that means.”

Roman nodded, bit his lip.

Dean didn’t do spanking, couldn’t get into the headspace for it, but he’d become a master of the art of time out. “Corner,” he said, firmly. He pointed.

Roman shuffled over to the corner, hanging his head dejectedly. He fisted his hands in his sweatpants and rolled his shoulders. Dean took a minute to shove the crayons and book into a bag, to hide the action figure away from Roman’s view. Then he pushed himself back onto the sofa, wincing and shifting before raising his gaze to Roman.

“Shirt off,” Dean said. “You know how this goes.”

Roman dropped his shirt slowly and then, at Dean’s significant look, followed it with his pants and boxers. Dean smiled at him and he flushed from his scalp downward.

Roman cupped his hands over his limp penis and picked a spot on the floor to stare at. Personally, he never understood this part, even when he looked back at it with the grown up part of his brain turned on. He got stared at for a living. Millions of people, many of them hostile and jeering. What was it about Dean’s gaze in moments like this that made him feel stripped open, naked to his ribcage, so vulnerable he could barely stand it? Why did it make him blush, go dizzy with shame and anxiety, regress until all he could register was sensations and the shapes of objects in space? Why did it feel so good?

“Daddy,” he said, glancing up at him.

“Shh.” Dean was raking his eyes over Roman’s body, taking in every inch of skin with a smug, proprietary look. “Quiet time.” He palmed his growing bulge, shifting his hips up to meet his hand. “Lemme see you all over. Good little boys don’t hide from their daddies.” He looked at Roman significantly.

Slowly, Roman dropped his hands, opening and closing them at his sides. His palms were sweating and his skin was so hot. Reluctantly Dean moved his own touch to his stomach, pawing up it to wipe a heavy palm on the side of his neck. 

Haltingly, Roman raised his arms over his head so that Dean could see the curve of his biceps. He leaned forward, sweeping his hair off one shoulder so that Dean could see the back of his neck. He’d been guided through this enough times to know all the hidden places Dean would insist upon.

He pivoted, hands dropping to his side again, wiping the sweat on the top of his thighs. He lifted first one leg, then the other to show the soles of his feet. Then he flushed and shuddered and with both hands held his cheeks apart so that Dean could examine his hole.

Dean hummed in approval. “That’s good,” he cooed. “Stay just like that.”

Roman obeyed for an interminable amount of time, his eyes clenched shut and his ears straining at the silence of the room. He could hear Dean, the shifting and moving of his body, but he couldn’t quite tell what Dean was doing. A sigh, a rustle of clothing, the shift of a beer can. Was Dean touching himself? Hands in his open fly and tongue wetting his lip? Or just waiting? Drinking beer and counting the minutes as they passed?

Roman felt his cock start to harden as his skin went tight with excitement. He started to speak, to beg Daddy for attention, but lost his nerve and merely mouthed the word silently. His hands were wet against the skin of his buttocks. 

Then there was something hot at the small of his back and then Dean was at his ear murmuring. “Alright there, buddy. That’s enough,” and Roman turned into his body and burst into tears. Dean had taken the sling off and opened his arms to let Roman press into his chest. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry, I drew on the floor.”

“I know.” Dean wrapped his good arm around the back of Roman’s head and pressed his lips against Roman’s temple.

Dean’s jeans were unbuttoned and Roman’s bare arms slid right around his waist.

“Come here, little one.” He pulled Roman back across the room, sat down in the recliner chair and patted his knee.

Roman lurched forward, climbing on top of Dean and straddling his lap. His knees were wedged in the chairs overstuffed arms, the springs digging into his knees. He should have felt too big but there was something about Dean that made his attention overwhelming.

“You want me to rock you, baby?” Dean asked, voice rough. “I can rock you.” Roman nodded.

Dean’s strong arm wrapped around the small of Roman’s back and pulled him down, hips tight against Dean’s lap. Roman was starting to lose himself in the heat and the pressure. He tucked his face into Dean’s neck.

“Need more, Daddy,” he murmured. “Need you inside me.”

“I can do that, baby.” Dean reached for the side table, shoving aside the medicine bottles and empty water bottles for a bottle of vitamin E oil. Roman had seen guys backstage use that for scars, but it did just fine slicking up Dean’s fingers enough to slide them up into Roman’s ass.

Sinking down onto Dean’s dick felt so good and right, like everything wrong in Roman’s life had slid back into its rightful place. Dean pushed back his hair far enough to get at his lips, licking and nipping and whispering to him.

“That’s right, baby. There you are. Right where you belong. Taking my cock so good, so good little one. Oh, god. Good baby. Perfect. Sweet little boy.”

Roman flashed hot and red and let his whole body collapse onto Dean, following his guiding hands and rasping voice without thought, further and further from the stresses of his everyday into pleasure and touch and care.

Dean came hot and sweaty a few minutes later, grinding up into Roman and letting him milk out Dean’s dick with those rocking, gentle thrusts. It was only then that Roman realized he’d already came and that the aftershocks were twitching his muscles and making him shake.

When Roman’s heartbeat crawled down out of his ears he realized he was exhausted. The knot in his stomach had eased and all the muscles he’d been holding stiff were loose now. It took all his energy just pull away from Dean’s collarbone.

“Sleepy,” Roman said simply. “Tuck me in?” 

Dean smiled, all wonder and love and assurance. Dean brought his hand to Roman’s face and Roman nuzzled into his palm.

Dean walked Roman through brushing teeth and combing hair, wiped a wet cloth along his face and then used it to wipe the cum off Roman’s stomach and back of his thighs. Roman stepped into a pair of Dean’s ragged pajama pants and Dean tugged them up to his waist.

The unmade bed smelled like Dean. Roman turned his head into the pillow and giggled, pulled the comforter up over his shoulder. He reached for Dean’s wrist, got the bad arm and tugged on it anyway, dragged him closer. Dean took a seat at his side. He stroked his other hand along Roman’s side.

“Good day, little one?”

“I missed you, Daddy.”

“Missed you too, buddy.” Dean reached into his back pocket and withdrew the action figure, bopping it against Roman’s nose. Roman screwed up his face in response, then grabbed for the doll and tucked it into the bed beside him.

There was a sound. The door, slamming loud and rattling the walls. Someone letting themselves inside, dropping bags and suitcases in the entryway. Roman sat up, strained his ears and heard Renee call into the house.

“Oh,” Dean said, biting a lip to keep his smug smile in check. “That’s your other surprise, little one. Mommy’s come for a visit too.”


End file.
